


In the Sensory Receptors of the Beholder

by chambergambit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Synesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chambergambit/pseuds/chambergambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos hears Cecil’s voice a few times before he actually sees him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Sensory Receptors of the Beholder

Carlos first hears Cecil’s voice during the tail-end of the long drive to Night Vale, when one of his research assistants fiddles with the radio as she searches for something to listen to. His assistants have gone through every mp3 on every player that they have, and they both are eager for some new sound. Carlos doesn’t really care, as long as it keeps them compliant.

She turns the nob through various levels of static until a warm, clear voice oozes from the speakers.

“ _—to Night Vale._ ”

Snatching her hand away from the nob as if it burned, his assistant looks back and forth between Carlos and their colleague in the back seat. Carlos glances down at the radio before focusing again on the road. Airy music that Carlos can’t help but think of as _purple_ plays behind that smooth voice as it reports on a construction project near the Ralph’s, and the rumors that it might be a new park.

“Must be a local show,” the assistant behind him says, leaning forward to rest his head on the seat in front of him.

In his peripheral vision, Carlos can see his two assistants smile at each other. He hopes they can keep their clearly budding romance from interfering with their work. The last thing he wants is a nasty break-up in the middle of the lab. Alright, the last thing he wants is for them all to become another Night Vale mysterious death statistic, but a break-up is right after that.

He adjusts his glasses and keeps his tired eyes on the flickering lights on the horizon. The radio show clearly isn’t enough to keep his assistants from whispering and giggling, but it at least drowns out the worst of it. Carlos doesn’t quite listen, but instead lets the voice drape over him like a warm blanket.

“Doc?” the assistant next to him says as she touches his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Hmm?” Carlos turns and blinks at her.

His assistants stare back at him, their brows furrowed with worry.

“You seemed to nod off for a second.” “You want one of us to drive?” “Maybe you could catch a few winks in the back.” They say. Their voices feel cold and harsh for some reason, no matter how sincere their concerns.

Carlos looks back at the radio. Some song he doesn’t know plays, even though he’s sure the host said they were about to do the weather. Maybe they’re right, maybe he did nod off for a second.

He pulls over and climbs into the back seat, not caring to see which of his assistants chose to take over driving duty. Instead, he lies down on his side and covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow. One of them is kind enough to turn off the radio for some quiet.

Carlos sleeps until they finally reach their new lab.

_

Carlos and his assistants were all told to do their best to hold back as much surprise, shock, and/or fear they might experience in the day-to-day happenings in Night Vale, and above all, not to stare. At the time, Carlos thought this was unnecessary and that he and he colleagues were polite and professional enough without such a lecture, but now believes the brief warning they received wasn’t nearly adequate.

From the lights in the sky (mostly concentrated above some fast-food place), to the doorless, windowless library, to the helicopters that always seem to be buzzing around various buildings, Carlos finds it vary difficult to not whip out his moleskin and start taking notes at every sight.

He manages to rein the urge in his first couple days in town. The lab isn’t fully set up yet, and all of their writing utensils have gone missing. There are plenty of things to deal with before he can run around the block with a butterfly net and a radiation meter. Until then, the farthest out of the lab he’ll go is to the pizza place next door.

It takes way too much time for the three of them to agree on toppings, and Carlos ends up volunteering to get the pizza himself just to get some air. As brilliant as his assistants may be, watching them flirt makes him nauseous. He digs his hands into the pockets of his lab coat as he exits his building and heads for Big Rico’s, ignoring the heat and the multicolored tendrils of smoke leaking out of a manhole in the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The proper instruments to take samples are still packed, so it’s no use getting distracted.

Maybe if his assistants get too gushy over dinner, he can come outside and take some notes… if he can find a pen.

Big Rico’s is packed, especially for a weeknight, but as far as Carlos can tell, it’s the only pizza place in town. He puts the fact that some of the patrons look like they’re there more out of obligation than for the pizza out of his mind, and steps in line to make his to-go order.

Somewhere at the front of the line, over the chatter and static of families and couples and packs of hooded figures, Carlos hears that smooth voice again. He looks up, trying to see who the voice comes from, but in the crowd he can’t get a good look. The voice isn’t quite as deep and warm as it was on the radio the other night, but Carlos can tell it’s the same man.

Apparently, when not scripted, the man is a bit of an up-talker.

“I’ll have a large?” The radio host says, somewhere just outside of Carlos’s vision. “With pepperoni? And, um, black olives?”

Carlos supposes that eavesdropping isn’t any better than staring, so he looks down at his feet and recites pi in his head. The numbers in his mind are a soft, saffron-yellow.

The cashier gives the man from the radio his change.

“Thank you!” the man says, and the numbers brighten to a shiny gold.

Carlos continues to list numbers as he makes his way up the queue, but they begin to rust as time goes by. He finds himself thankful that he reaches the end to give his order before the numbers can fully lose their shine.

_

Once the lab is set up, Carlos and his team call a town meeting to explain why they’re in Night Vale, just as they were instructed to do so. It was explained to them before they left that, as newcomers are a rare occurrence in Night Vale, it was important to make their presence known to the community so that they would not be viewed with suspicion.

Carlos puts on his formalwear lab coat and most gracious smile, and lets the people gathered in town hall know that their town is the most scientifically interesting place in the country. He can see some familiar agents in the back, but the crowd seems pleased as they mummer and nod at each other, so the agents remain where they are.

He mingles with the citizens of Night Vale for while after his announcement. Despite their otherwise menacing town, the people themselves seem friendly enough. Carlos makes a mental note in red to not take this for granted, and that anyone of these cheery people asking about his credentials could be members of the sheriff’s secret police, or worse.

An elderly woman approaches him with a basket of corn muffins. She offers him one, but warns that they lack salt because the angels living in her house took her salt for some heavenly purpose. Carlos takes one, and finds that they taste pretty good anyway.

“I’d invite you over to study them,” the woman says, “but they can be rather shy sometimes. The black one changed my porch light today. Perhaps you can study the lightbulb he touched? I’m looking to sell it anyway.”

Carlos mulls this over as he swallows a bite of his corn muffin. “I think I would have to run some tests before I made a purchase.”

The old woman continues on about her angels, and as fascinating as it is, someone else catches his eye. No, not his eye. Someone’s voice catches his ear.

Carlos knows the moment he sees him talking to a woman wearing a balaclava that this is the man from the radio. While he doesn’t seem to speak any louder than the rest of the crowd, but his voice carries over to Carlos full and clear. The voice hits Carlos somewhere in his chest and pools down in his stomach, warm and cherry red.

“Excuse me.” Carlos says, leaning down closer to the old woman and gesturing to the man by the punch bowl. “But if you don’t mind, could you tell me who that is?”

“Him?” says the woman. “Oh, that’s Cecil Palmer. He’s the Voice of Night Vale, you know.”

“Yes, I heard a bit of his show the other night.” Carlos says.

“You should meet him!” says the old woman. “Tell him about any scientific discoveries, and the whole town will be able to know too.” She turns around and waves her hand. “Cecil! Cecil, boy! Over here!”

Cecil excuses himself from his conversation and makes his way over to them. He meets Carlos’s eye for just a second before he smiles and looks away, clutching his hands to his chest as if to keep his heart from falling out.

“Yes, Josie?” Cecil asks. The old woman’s name is a beautiful fuchsia in his mouth.

“Carlos here wants to know if you will report on his studies on your show,” says Josie.

Carlos blinks. “Oh, I didn’t—”

“I’d absolutely love too!” Cecil says. His face lights up and he beams at Carlos. “Please, let me give you my card.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. Handing it to Carlos, their fingertips brush and Cecil takes a sharp breath, but continues to smile. Carlos nods, thanking him, and looks down at the card. It’s purple with black lettering, but words _Cecil Palmer_ are a shimmering bronze in his mind.

Carlos tucks the card away as he excuses himself. He and his team must get to their studies. Josie and Cecil say their goodbyes, each orange and navy, respectively.

_

Later that day, as Carlos and his assistants study a house that most certainly is not there, one of them squats down next to Carlos and machine gathering data. Carlos is focused entirely on the electric blue numbers that tell him the house he sees in front of him can’t possibly be there at all.

“Hey, Doc?” she asks.

“Yes?” says Carlos, not looking away from the numbers.

“I heard you met the guy from the radio.”

“Hmm?” Carlos says. He presses a button on the machine, then turns to reach for his bag and get out the geiger counter. “Oh, yes, I did. What about it?”

“I was just wondering what he looked like,” she says. “I wanted to put a face to the voice.”

“He’s…” Carlos stops, frowning. He can picture Cecil in his head perfectly, remembering every detail of the man’s appearance, but the words to describe him don’t seem to fit together. They’re clear and colorless, completely inappropriate.

“Well?” his assistant asks, tilting her head to the side like a curious puppy.

“He looks, I think,” Carlos says as he tries to find words that don’t clash. He sighs in defeat and looks up at her.  “He looks exactly like his voice sounds.”

She smiles. “I thought so.”

Carlos turns back to his machines, doing his best to ignore the ocean of warmth that still remains in his stomach from when he met Cecil a few hours ago. The data before him somehow saturates, and numbers seem to gain a luminous quality of their own. Carlos suspects that these are all perfectly common occurrences in Night Vale.

People looking like voices. Numbers glowing with pride. Hearts beating fast over men you’ve just met.

Further studies are needed.


End file.
